


such stuff

by Waywarder



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Dreams, References to Shakespeare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:20:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23918944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waywarder/pseuds/Waywarder
Summary: In his dreams, there is a face beside his, whispering hot breaths against his throat. Gracing his skin with the touch of loosened tendrils of garnet colored hair.“Please,” he begs again, tears streaming down his pale face. Please he needlessly begs of the only creature on Earth who has never denied him anything.We are such stuff as dreams are made on.Title fromThe Tempest.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 75





	such stuff

In his dreams, he is hard and desperate and aching.

“Please,” he begs.

In his dreams, there is a face beside his, whispering hot breaths against his throat. Gracing his skin with the touch of loosened tendrils of garnet colored hair.

“ _Please,_ ” he begs again, tears streaming down his pale face. _Please_ he needlessly begs of the only creature on Earth who has never denied him anything.

There is a hand on his inner thigh, and lips at his neck. The other hand holds him by the hip, fingers digging into his soft flesh. In his dreams, he is beautiful, he is not too much. He is enough to be held in his hands, and, my, isn’t that something? 

In his dreams, he is completely unfettered. He moans loudly, wildly, like the free thing that he is not. 

Long, clever fingers stroke softly up and down him, brushing just against the curls at the base of him, before retreating back in the direction of his knee. He spreads his leg wider, a wordless invitation, not that he is feeling miserly with his words tonight.

“Darling,” he gasps. “Oh, you’re so good. So good to me, always, my dear”

He knows what he is doing, and, sure enough, there is a low snarl at his throat before sharp teeth sink into the meat of his shoulder. He cries out, near delirious with want. He feels almost unhinged. It doesn’t matter where they are, it doesn’t matter when they are. There’s not enough time. There is only all the time in the world, which could never be enough. 

The hand at the base of his cock settles, beginning to pet lazily through the curls there, fingers haunting the delicate, vulnerable skin that is just near.

“Tell me” breathes the creature above him, voice low and steady.

He speaks. Oh, speak again, bright-

“Oh!” he gasps out again, as miraculously slick fingers now begin to tease at his entrance. He hitches his knees up, another invitation. His desire is an embossed, shining bit of white card stock in the mail. _Your presence is humbly requested…_

A single finger presses just inside of him, and he shouts again. His own hand comes up to press against his mouth. He wants to howl out into the world that this is real, that he has not made this up, that he wanted him too, and they have made it here, maybe only now, maybe only this once, and how dare anything stand to keep them apart? He cannot think that, cannot scream that, so he covers his mouth with his hand.

It does not stay there long. Teeth nip at the back of his knuckles.

“I need to hear you,” he growls. Because he needs it more than he does, he knows. He knows the whiplash that he has caused him, this being that he loves so fervently. He knows the endless pain of asking him to stay away only to reel him in now, to kiss and touch along his body, to let him inside of him.

In his dreams, he will ask him to stay forever. He will.

“Tell me,” he whispers again, a slight tremble now in his voice that he knows that he put there. He begins to mentally berate himself for it, to hate himself for the pain he has caused this beautiful thing, but then two hands are reaching up to seize both of his wrists and pin them there to the ground around them. 

“You’re wrong,” he shakes his head, letting loose more of that brilliant ruby hair. He pauses. How did he… 

_Can you hear me like this?_

_Sometimes. Only when you’re so bloody loud._

_I’m sorry, my dear. I’m so sorry._

_I’m not._

Gleaming, burnished eyes meet his own, and he gasps at the furious beauty of them. 

_I’m yours._

In his dreams, it does not matter which one of them says it, because it is true either way.

The hands pinning his own readjust, and their fingers intertwine there against the ground. He lines himself up, and begins to push inside. He throws his head back, moaning loudly as he was asked.

_Good, dear heart. That’s very good._

When he is fully inside, he wraps his legs around his waist, and they stay there for a moment, breathing deeply. 

_What do you want? I’ll do anything._

_I want to see your face._

And he wants to kiss and lick and bite and suck, but he wants to give him what he’s asked for more. This small thing. And so he keeps his face pulled away, and their eyes stay locked on one another. As he begins to slowly, deeply thrust into him, he does not dare throw his head back again to moan. He shudders and gasps, feeling impossible beneath that honied stare. 

In his dreams, they stay like this for hours, rocking gently against each other and looking deeply into each other’s eyes, desperate to see and be seen.

His thrusts begin to pick up in speed and intensity as his breathing picks up, too. He still does not dare to close his eyes. He wraps his legs tighter around him, meeting his thrusts with his own, needing to have him closer, deeper, faster.

In his dreams, he is wet and soft and utter perfection.

In his dreams, he is the hero of this story instead of the monster. He is taking care of this shining, magnificent creature beneath him, he is. Giving, giving, loving. Not just taking and ruining. 

Please not ruining. 

Now it is his turn to shake his head.

_Never, darling._

In his dreams, he saves him one more time, and then neither of them ever needs it again. 

He cannot last much longer, and he challenges himself not to care. He is determined to make this as good as he possibly can for him. He releases his wrists, pauses to press a kiss to the inside of one, and then he is pulling back, bringing his ankles up around his shoulders for a deeper angle.

He screams, and it is music, and he thrusts harder and faster, doing anything he can to hear that gorgeous sound again. They are both speaking at once now, high, low, steady, incoherent, everything at once. He can no longer tell what is in his head, and what is out loud, what is out in the open where someone could snatch these endearments up like fireflies, and trap them in a jar. His heart is trapped in a jar up on a shelf where it does not belong. His heart has never been his own to give away, and he did it anyway, and, for a moment, he lets his frustration carry him as much as his adoration, fucking into him harder still.

_I’m yours._

In his dreams, he cries out “I love you” as he comes. 

In his dreams, he rests his forehead against his, and they breathe together, and he laughs a little, and then he laughs too, and he begins to weep, and he cradles him to his chest and strokes his hair.

In his dreams, he whispers “I love you” just as he falls asleep.

In his dreams, sunlight never discovers them, and blackbirds are never emissaries of the opposition, sent from both sides to be their undoing.

In his dreams, he never blinks. 

_Our revels now are ended._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Writing every day has really been my main source of joy during shelter-in-place, so it means a whole lot to me that you're here. I hope you're doing okay!


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